Stepping across a gantry that is only three feet wide at a height of two thousand feet would be hairy enough if it was joined to two solid buildings. When it is joined to two airships that were moving with the air currents it is decidedly dangerous. Smythe watched, heart in mouth, as a sudden warm air current lifted the two ships whilst Lady Ashdown made the crossing. He let out a breath and realised that he had not drawn air since she started to cross.
He was next and took the trip much faster, his RAS experience helping him to overcome the only natural reluctance his body had about crossing the gap.
Once they were all on-board, they were escorted to a sumptuous wardroom by a junior officer, and told that the Bishop would join them shortly.
When he entered, the Bishop made an imposing presence. Dressed head-to-toe in the Church of England’s Fleet uniform he was the epitome of the new class of clergy.
Smythe had to be honest with himself and admit that the dress uniform of a Fleet Bishop was most impressive. The flat cap had a brim that was practically vertical, with three lines of gold inlaid upon the patent leather.
The cap itself was black with a white band that had the coat of arms of the Church as the cap badge. The shoulder boards were also white with black shepherd’s crooks denoting his rank of Bishop. His well-tailored black jacket was double breasted with white buttons, and around his cuffs he had three crooks wrapping around the full circumference
The Bishop wore trousers that were also black with three white stripes running the full length to the calf-high boots into which they were tucked. Whitened webbing crossed the front of the uniform and he had both a sword and pistol on his hips.
Smythe was glad to see that the Bishop’s handshake was both solid and strong, the hands calloused around the thumb from hours of sword and pistol practice.
“Welcome to the Deliver Us From Evil, an archangel class leviathan. I trust you are all unharmed?” The Bishop’s voice managed to be both deep and mellow at the same time, and his eyes twinkled with what Smythe took to be genuine pleasure at meeting them all.
Lady Ashdown glided forward and offered him her hand to kiss. “Thank you very much for your timely intervention. It is because of you that we are all unscathed.”
“Not all dear lady, not at all. Now, to business, tell me what you are permitted to tell me about this business with the torques and, in return, I shall tell you what I can about the dealings we have had with them. “
Over the next half hour, they briefed him on past events, fudging where they had to but still managing to give him a clear picture of their concerns.
Once they had finished be leaned forward and pressed a button on the table between them. A mess orderly appeared and Magnus ordered food for them all. He waited until the food was laid out, and everyone served, before giving them his side of the story.
“The church has, for a while, been sending expeditions through its own gates in order to learn more about our enemies and their lands. One such expedition posed as Slavs for over a year. When the survivors returned one of the things they briefed us about was the legal system.
He held up a hand as Von Adin barked out a laugh, “I know! It beggars belief that such creatures have a system of law or indeed even a judiciary. However, as with our system, they have varying levels of punishment.
Vampyres do not allow the killing of their own, nor do they allow the killing of another Vampyre’s Slavs without the express permission of the Vampyre in question. The punishment for killing a fellow Vampyre outside of a legitimate duel or for killing another Vampyre’s Slavs without permission is Torqueing.”
Gubbins raised a hand, waiting for Magnus to acknowledge him before asking, “You mean to say that the man We’re seeking has contacts on the other side of either the Curtain, or the other side of a gate?” Smythe could barely contain himself, the threat was greater than he had previously thought.
“Indeed, I am,” said Magnus, adding, “Now, because aether here is still so weak compared to the aether through the gates, a sacrifice is required to use the power of the victim’s soul as a booster. There they merely use a drop of blood and they can bind pretty much any creature at will.” He paused to take a bite from a well-filled roast beef sandwich and a hearty pull on a glass of bitter.
“It appears that our common enemy has either, been through the gates and obtained such a thing, or has deliberately entered into an alliance with a High Lord in order to be taught how to make these vile things.”
“This is all very interesting Bishop, but what do you want from us?” Smythe was keen to cut to the chase. He was far more tired than he liked, and knew that negotiating in such a state often led to the fitter person gaining the upper hand.
“I too wish to make an alliance. Where possible we shall share intelligence gathered and pool resources. Does this seem reasonable to you?” Magnus reclined back as far as his chair would allow and waiting for them to respond.
“With permission I shall contact our superior?” at his nod, Lady Ashdown Pulled and sent a whisper to the Professor.
Whilst she did so, Smythe took the chance to ask the Bishop about his airship, the thought that the Church controlled such power filled him with dread. One home grown enemy is enough. If the church ever decided to turn on us I’m not sure if I would be able to place a bet on the winner. No more than five minutes of polite conversation had passed before a simple whisper returned “proceed”.
The deal set, they returned to their ship after a tour of the leviathan. Then, with Deliver Us From Evil flying near to them like a whale guarding her calf, they completed their journey.
*-
Now he was actually there, Smythe wholeheartedly agreed that Newquay was justly known for its beaches and the quality of fish that the trawler fleets landed. The air was bracing, invigorating, he might even go so far as to say it was refreshing. Standing on the quay, the four of them watched as a mixed trio of sea and airborne trawlers made their way out to sea.
The airborne trawlers had the distinct advantage of being able to use height to spot shoals of fish, usually by studying the seabirds that fed on such fish they would then communicate the location to their larger sisters. The airborne trawlers had also proven to be lifesavers, hauling the sea-borne crews out of trouble during the worst of storms. They had proven to be so useful that the Royal National Lifeboat Institute was using a version that they liked to call the “lifesaver”.
He was glad that this time their cover stories were simple. They were to pretend that they were representing Her Majesty’s Imperial Treasury as part of a surprise inspection. Because he worked for a government body, pretending to work for another would be quite simple, and he knew that it was certainly much easier for Lady Ashdown than having to pretend to be a simpering wife who knew nothing about the gold exchange but who professed a love for fluffy kittens.
It must be simply awful to be an intelligent woman who has married into a family of dullards and who is trapped by society’s expectations.
Despite having worked with them for years, he never ceased to marvel at the Sanction’s ability to organise from a distance. All of the relevant papers had been awaiting their arrival, as had a troop of Cavalry to ensure that they remained safe. On top of that, the Professor had arranged for a squad of Sanction men dressed in the uniform of the 4th Cornish Rifles to provide additional security, meaning that they were more than prepared for any further trouble.
Leaving their ship to be repaired as well as possible, they set off. Smythe had already said that he did not believe that Torquemasta would be arrogant enough to have people planted throughout all of Lord Mile’s business holdings, but orders were orders, so he sat and mulled over the last few days” events. No matter how often he thought about it, the size of the organisation they were facing astounded him. The sheer arrogance of whomever was behind the plot was, he was certain, going to be their downfall. That their enemy was mad, he had no doubt, for no sane man would willingly set out on a path that would see him taking on the might of the British Empire.
Finally, hours after they set out, they arrived at the small village housing the ore works. Built to receive the copper and tin mined in the area the village had prospered in an age where copper was vital to conducting aether and electricity. Their horse’s hooves struck sparks from the newly laid cobbles, and all of the houses were freshly painted, the roofs clear of moss.
Those people in the street stared as they clattered past, it was obvious they were used to seeing the Cornish Copper Company’s militia but it was rare to see people travelling with a right hand man and so many well-armed soldiers.
As arranged the site’s accountant, a fussy looking man called Mr Brookdale met them and ushered them in to the site offices. There was something that instantly put Smythe’s back up. He could not pin it down, but something was definitely off.
Of course, I could just be getting to be a tad paranoid in my old age. No matter how hard he tried, he still felt something was wrong.
“I received a telegram this morning from Lord Miles himself, he said I was to give you my full aid in helping you, mister Smith.” Said Brookdale as he placed the telegram down neatly on the blotter in front and smoothed it flat with slow and careful consideration.
Smythe stepped over and shook the man’s hand, trying not to grimace as he was treated with what felt like having a dead fish placed in his hand.
“Let me get straight to the point. We are here on behalf of Her Majesty’s Imperial Treasury. Whilst my assistant, Miss Andrews goes through your books, myself and my companion will examine the works. You will stay with Miss Andrews, as will Mr Gubbins.” Brookdale was in the process of rising. Caught mid-rise he hesitated then stood fully and smoothed out his waistcoat before giving a slight bow and gesturing towards the large safe in the corner.
“Everything Miss Andrews will require is in the safe. I shall open it momentarily after I have organised a guide for yourself and your companion.”
As Brookdale pointed, Smythe noticed the edges of what appeared to be an oddly shaped burn showing just above the cuff. The back of his mind tickled as he tried to place what it reminded him of. They waited for a few minutes as Brookdale summoned an aide, a mister Calders and gave him orders to escort them around the premises. As he passed the Sanction infantry, Smythe made a quick signal with his hands.
Possible enemy sighted, watch lady. The squad leader narrowed his eyes and gave the command for a formal salute, “Officer on parade! To the front salute.” There was a resounding clack as the men stamped their right foot into attention and presented their rifles.
“At ease Serjeant. We’re going for a quick walk with Mr Calders here. Back in a jiffy.” Smythe’s voice sounded both lazy and upper class, a typical toff in a position of power that name rather than ability had given him. He noticed the quick curl of Calder’s lips, an involuntary sign of contempt, and knew his intuition had been right.
Men like Calders can’t stand the way less able but more privileged men as I appear to be, get all of the plum jobs. The women too no doubt.
As they moved through the facility Smythe’s eyes took as much as possible in. Every time a worker touched hand to cap, he looked for a sign. Their arms were mostly bare and covered in burn scars from various minor and not so minor mishaps.
Finally, just as they were about to leave the large washroom provided for the workers, a worker bending over to shuck out of his sweat-laden shirt caught his eye. The man straightened and turned, pulling his shirt back down hastily as he heard the approaching.
“Take your shirt off please.” There was no please about it, and Smythe tensed as he saw the man’s hands close into fists. Shifting his right foot back he feigned nonchalance whilst taking the cap off his fountain pen and pretending to make notes in his journal.
Calders stepped around and in between the two of them, keeping himself turned to Smythe he asked “Is there a problem sir? Has this man done something to offend you?” Without waiting for a reply he turned, “Out of our sight Ching. I’ll have words with you later.”
Ching made to leave, but stopped as Von Adin barred his way. “I do believe that you were asked to remove your shirt. It would be considered to be rude if you refused again. I don’t like rude people so, as mister Smith so nicely asked, remove the shirt. Now.”
Calders made a sound of protest and tried to place himself between them as well. “Sir I must insist that you leave this matter to me! If he has offended you, I shall personally see to any disciplinary matters. I fail to see how this falls under the remit of the Treasury!” Spittle flew from Calder’s mouth and his voice shook as his vocal chords tightened.
We’ve got the bastard scared, what on earth is he hiding?
“I’ve made a simple request. Your man is to take off his shirt. Now!” Smythe barked the last word, using the shout to stun Calders just enough for him to push the little man out of the way.
As he stepped forward and reached for Ching’s shirt, Ching stabbed his foot straight into Smythe’s shin, the reinforced toecap adding power to the strike. The pain was intense and the impact caused Smythe to lean forward as his leg was trapped in a half-step. He used this momentum to punch Ching square on the nose, regained his balance and shunted his rear foot forward, slamming his heel down onto Ching’s thigh, thrusting hard with his hips.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
With a grunt Ching fell backwards as his leg gave way. A quick step, and Smythe launched a vicious shin kick into the same place. Ching could do nothing to defend himself and dropped to the floor holding his dead leg.
Leaning down Smythe punched him repeatedly in the face, smashing his spreading blood all over the man’s face. Letting go of the suddenly limp body he turned to Calders.
“I want your sleeves rolled up and not one word out of your mouth bar yes sir will do!” his hands shook with the adrenalin. As he stepped towards Calders a sharp pain raced up his leg. Where the hell did that come from?
There was a blur of movement and his chin hit his chest. He tried to breathe but just could not summon the strength to do so. Smythe was astonished. How on earth had such a prissy little man moved so fast? He was so shocked that he barely jammed the kick to his groin. Riding the block Calders landed forward and threw a quick one-two into his bladder, striking right below the belt. Smythe tried to blink the tears away and throw a right hook but Calders was just too fast.
“Aaah!” he fell clutching his suddenly shattered knee. Calders sprang over him and out the room whippet quick.
“After him Karl, don’t let Calders out of your sight.” his breath rasped its way out of his throat. Lucky the little shit didn’t kill me. If he was honest with himself, he had looked at a civilian, and discounted him as a threat through pride.
You’d have thought that I’d have learned to listen to my instincts. With that thought, he drew a small six-shot pepperbox from the sock of his uninjured leg and pointed it at Ching, “Don’t make a fucking move.”
*
Von Adin pounded after Calders, stunned at how fast the man was able to run. Being as tall as he was, he was used to smaller people getting a good lead on him in the initial sprint, but usually found that his longer stride won out in the longer run.
“Stand to! Stand to!” Calders was racing away from him, and he just could not draw enough breath to catch up.
Leaping into action the Sanction escorts leveled their rifles at Calders, screaming at him to stop. There was a tremendous explosion behind them from the office and the bodies of Lady Ashdown and Gubbins flew through the air to land in an ungainly heap. Debris rained down and the Sanction men were blown from their feet by the shockwave.
Calders screamed mindlessly at the soldiers barring his way, the quickest of them was only just getting back to his feet, shaking it and palming his ears in a desperate attempt to clear them. His rifle raised slowly, but then back of the soldier’s head suddenly exploded, his shako spinning away.
Calders dropped to his knee suddenly and fired two more silent shots. Each one took a soldier in the head, falling to the ground in silence. Von Adin shook his head, I hope to God that explosion hasn’t deafened me.
Calders was up and running again, shouldering aside the feeble attempts of still-stunned Sanction members to grab him. Von Adin quickly took aim. His finger tightened on the trigger and, just as he was about to fire, he heard a bestial roar, the noise so loud that it pierced even his deafened ears.
Emerging from the burning wreckage of the office was a creature wearing the rags of Brookdale’s clothing. It was at least eight feet tall with elongated fingers that had three inch-long razor sharp claws. An almost absent-minded slash ripped one of the cavalrymen clean in half, killing him before he even had a chance to scream.
The horses were bucking and rearing, their screams of fear making Von Adin’s hair stand on end. The Changeling charged into their midst. Another lazy looking slash cut a horse from tail to neck, parting flesh and bone as if it was butter. Stinking, steaming entrails poured out of the horse and it flopped to the ground, sending its rider hurtling through the air.
Von Adin was torn. Should he go after Calders, check on Lady Ashdown or fight the Changeling? His heart already knew what it wanted to do, but he knew that if he did not kill the Changeling quickly, there was every chance that it would reach Lady Ashdown and kill her any way. Screaming in frustration, he started to fire at the Changeling, his rounds blowing bloody holes in the beast. Pumping his arm he powered up his glove and unleashed a steam of aether.
The cavalry had been forced to dismount, their horses galloping through the village, mouths frothing. Despite their best efforts, their swords might as well have been toothpicks for all the apparent damage they were doing, the Changeling continuing to stride through them and kill them at will.
His pistol’s hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Popping it out the empty shells, he quickly pushed a mix of demon rounds and dum-dums into the chambers. Snapping it shut he took careful aim, and fired dead centre into the creature’s chest. The first round hit just below the diaphragm, opening up a crater nearly an inch across and making the Changeling stagger back from the pain. The second shot was a demon round. Hitting the first hole, it followed the ever-widening channel caused by the dum-dum before lodging in the spine. The Changeling’s legs gave way and it dropped into a sitting position with an almost comical look of surprise on its face.
Flame sprung out of its chest and it started to shriek as the demon trapped within the bullet burned its way out through the spine. The shriek turned into a bubbling wail and as the demon hissed its way out, the Changeling flopped backwards onto the ground. With a final smoke-laden cough, it was still.
Silence descended, the survivors looking at each, leaning over as the adrenalin left their systems and all the tiredness and hurts threatened to overwhelm them. Three of the cavalry and two Sanction men had been killed by the Changeling, on top of those already killed by Calders.
Von Adin ran over to Lady Ashdown and Gubbins. Kneeling next to her, he placed his ear near to her mouth. Please God, let her live! His vision was blurred and he could not be sure whether her chest was rising or not.
He felt her lips touch his cheek as she whispered, “My dear Karl, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Most inappropriate, I do declare.” Spluttering denials, Von Adin stepped back, looking at the others for moral support.
She laughed as she sat up and then groaned as the bumps and scrapes made their presence felt.
“That bastard spawned creature surprised us when your man came running out. It had some sort of explosive charge in the safe, which it set off. I barely had time to shield us before we were blown out of the building. I fear that Gubbins might have taken a little more of the blast than me.”
She Pulled quickly and ran her hands over Gubbins, pushing aether into the areas he was hurt. He groaned and rubbed his head as he was helped to his feet. “Thank you my Lady, I feel much better.”
“Follow me, Willoughby is also hurt and he has a prisoner that I would like you to counter-heal if you get my meaning.” Von Adin said.
Making their way to the wash block as quickly as their protesting bodies allowed them, they found a barely conscious Von Adin locked in an embrace with Ching. The smaller man was desperately trying to get out from the choke hold that Smythe had him in, whilst blood loss was causing him to fade in and out of consciousness.
Lady Ashdown ran forward with a cry of anger and Ching’s head smashed in to the floor as she viciously stamped onto his face. There was a loud crack and his cheekbone split open, jagged pieces of yellow bone jutting from the wound.
She Pulled sharply and, placing her hands on Smythe’s knee, Pushing just as sharply. Groaning in obvious relief, Smythe pushed Ching’s limp body off and stood, flexing the leg.
“Thank you Clara, I must say it’s damned good to have that pain go. I honestly think I’d have died from blood loss if I didn’t have you two to look after me.”
The three of them stood and looked down at Ching as he started to regain consciousness, crying out as he touched his shattered cheek.
“So, Willoughby. What was all the fuss about the man’s damn shirt?” asked Von Adin, only now remembering the cause for the carnage they had just witnessed.
Smythe leaned forward and flipped Chin over, lifting his shirt as he did so and revealing an old brand on his back.
Lady Ashdown hissed, “It’s the same symbol as the cult in the catacombs. This bastard is a member.”
“I saw the same scar on that changeling. As he pointed to the safe, it poked out from under his cuffs. Gubbins, do me a favour, run back and check out the creature’s left wrist please.”
Kneeling down Smythe looked closer at the scar on Ching’s, running his fingers lightly over it and tracing the shape. “Clara, would you be so kind my dear? Is there any spoor on this?”
“None, he’s not wearing a torque either. No spoor, no compulsion, no torque. This man is a volunteer!”
“Major Smythe is correct. The changeling has the scar. No torque.”
They all jumped as Gubbins spoke just behind her. How on earth did he move that quietly? Von Adin was impressed as the man’s ability to move so quietly.
“Clara, why would the changeling not have a torque?” Asked Smythe. Aside from being their aethermancer, Lady Ashdown was also the expert on all things aether-based.
“Changelings, despite all appearances to the contrary, are not animals,” Von Adin smiled at the way Lady Ashdown’s voice had changed to that of a teacher, “They are a highly adaptive and developed race. Not developed in our sense of the word, as they don’t have technology. The technology that they use is the technology of their subjects, those whose shape they mimic. Creatures such as ghouls on the other hand are animalistic. They can’t be reasoned with, they don’t have a social structure, and they are pure death incarnate.”
The torques are required to control such beasts and any creatures that might be unwilling to do as they are bidden. Changelings on the other hand can be reasoned with, dealt with. Just like this piece of odious shit.” She placed her heel gently onto Ching’s hand and thrust suddenly down, breaking the fragile bones as if they were twigs.
Ching howled and his eyes snapped open.
“Ah, did you enjoy listening to our conversation? Traitors such as you don’t hang. Nooooo, we reserve special treatment for scum such as you!” she had twisted her hand in his hair and pulled, forcing him onto his knees.
Von Adin placed his hand on hers gently. “Go easy with this one for now. We need him to help us find who’s behind all of this.” He was shocked at just how much venom she had stored up in her. Women simply did not act this way in the levels of society he was used to.
He hauled Ching to his feet and shoved him outside. Quickly binding him, they pushed him onto the nearest wagon. Gathering the remains of their escorts, they set off for Newquay. Von Adin watched as the villagers did their best to put out the fire that had started in the office, their efforts hampered by the fact that they all shied away from the body of the changeling.
“Willoughby, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to be abandoning these people like this.” Von Adin felt as though he was going against everything he had been taught was right, and which was his duty by leaving them in such a predicament.
“Me too old boy, but right now, we don’t know who is a coven member and how isn’t, and we can’t risk another pitched battle after having lost so many men already. I don’t want to face
Smythe mulled the situation over during the ride back to Newquay. We have a powerful figurehead who is determined to destroy the Empire. He, or she, uses torques to control aether-born creatures and those that he can’t reason with such as the forces we met in Bere Ferrers. Does this mean that there is a schism in the Horde? Where does Calders fit into all of this?
*
Von Adin stood and watched as Lady Ashdown questioned their prisoner, “Where does Calders fit into this? What is his role in the coven? What is your role?”
Damn but Clara’s good at this. Sometimes I swear she actually enjoys it. Von Adin spat on the floor, he was a man of action, raised to defend his country and his honour. Torture was not something that he had ever envisaged participating in, but orders were orders.
If it wasn’t for that damn anti-compulsion charm Clara found we would have had the answers by now.
He punched Ching in the diaphragm making him whoop for air. Punching someone in the stomach could cause a premature end to the questioning if done too hard, causing internal bleeding, so he worked the diaphragm, winding Ching. The fear caused by not being able to breathe was also an incentive to answer questions.
Smythe suddenly yanked the back of the chair Ching was on, catching it just before it slammed into the ground. Sometimes he would let the man fall all the way. Fear of the unknown was a powerful tool when questioning someone.
Ching managed to get some air back in his lungs, enough to spit at Von Adin and mutter “Fuck you Willy.”
Von Adin stepped forward with a roar of anger, and punched downward with his false hand, slamming it onto the top of Ching’s knee with all of his might. There was a loud crack as it shattered, bones making the trousers bulge in strange places. Lady Ashdown stepped forward and healed it so quickly that Ching was still crying with the memory of the pain when Von Adin stepped forward and broke it again.
“Don’t, please don’t hurt me. I’ll tell you what I can. NO!” Ching screamed in agony as Lady Ashdown grabbed his splintered knee and ground the bones together. She stepped back with a look of disgust as the pain made him vomit.
“This is just a taster of what you can expect if you waste our time. Talk.” She sat down as the broken man in front of them told them everything he knew.
Von Adin looked up at the corner of the ceiling, making sure that the vents up there were still open. The pipes they opened to filtered through to the room next door where Professor Dextor and a clerk would be listening and making notes.
Von Adin listened as Ching told them that, ”Calders was behind it all, he recruited me, promising me more money than I’d ever thought I could get my hands on, and power in the new Republic of Aether, he promised me a place in the inner circle, but first I had to join the Cult of Aether.”
Separatists, trying to split the country at a time when it needed to be united the most. These people are utter idiots. Von Adin shuddered as he imagined a country such as England in the throes of a revolution such as the French had, Doesn’t bear dwelling on. He turned his attention back to what Ching was saying.
“He said we would create a country carved out of England that would be free, democratic, and which would see people living alongside the aether-born peacefully. We were just so tired of being scared all the time.”
Von Adin tuned out the sobbing, the pleas for mercy and the rambling, sorting out the salient points from Ching’s babble. It appeared that once he had joined the movement he had realised that he was in something far deeper and darker than he could have ever imagined, especially after he had been forced to take part in sacrificial rituals in order to bind creatures using the torques.
Every chance he had, Ching mentioned Calders as being Alpha, the brains behind the organisation. After two hours, his voice was hoarse from talking and they were getting nothing new from him, and Von Adin was feeling more than a little self-disgust. Leaving Ching in the interrogation room, they joined the Professor.
*
“I believe that we’ve got everything we need from the poor sod sir. Whether or not he feels sorry, he’s a bloody traitor – and a foolish one at that. No need for a trial either, not with a confession like that.” Said Smythe in a flat voice, he was so tired that he could not even find the energy to feel anger. He could not even summon the energy to feel anything for the man he had just sentenced to death.
Dextor nodded and reached for the handle of a telephone. He dialled a short number, waited for a second or two and then said, “Mr Prinsips, I believe that you are next on the rota for feeding. Please pop down to cell five four six, your meal awaits.” Professor Dextor dropped the handle of the telephone and poured himself a generous helping of whiskey, passing the decanter to Smythe.
Lady Ashdown and Von Adin joined them, having washed their hands in the sink provided. There was a long, drawn out wail that slowly diminished as if the person making the noise was fading away into the distance. Quiet. Then two shots quickly rang out in succession.
A man poked his head around the door, “All done thank you Professor. That was a very dark soul indeed. He enjoyed every moment of his involvement. Much better for everyone that he’s dead. I made sure that he won’t be Rising.”
The head withdrew and the door shut, Professor Dextor quickly stood up and washed his hands at the sink fastidiously. It was well known that using Vampyres to do the government’s dirty work made him feel sullied.
Smythe shuddered, No matter how many times I witness that I can’t get used to it and I hope that I never do! He too hated the thought that they were feeding people to Vampyres, regardless as to whether the Vampyres were supposedly on their side or not.
Drying his hands, the Professor looked at all of them, a small smile on his face, “So, it appears that Calders is our man. I have requested that Lord Miles supply us with all the information he has on him and Mr Brookdale. I suspect that we shall find the real Brookdale was murdered long ago and replaced by the Changeling. Once we have the information on Calders, I want you to track him down. Go to the ends of the earth if you have but find him! Whether or not he truly is the brains behind the organisation doesn’t matter. He clearly knows a lot.”
Smythe nodded, even though he was bone-tired he wanted nothing more than to finish this case and wrap things up. The knowledge that it would take Lord Miles a while to find the information filled him with relief as he realised it meant they could all get some well-deserved rest and recuperation.
“It worries me at how good he was when he needed to come up to scratch. It suggests that another agency might be involved. The Great Game sadly persists despite the aether-born threatening to wipe us out. Go and get some rest people, I believe we’re finally entering in the end game. “